Swallowing hard, Tristan nodded. “We are fine, thank ye.” He glanced at the body on the floor. Then, without another word, he moved to the bed, pulling the quilt off. Grabbing the thinner blanket beneath, he stripped it from the mattress and began ripping it into long pieces. The sound made my nerves feel even more on edge, like he was shredding up the relief I’d just felt, thinking our trials were finally going to be over.
Our friends, however, seemed more shocked than they had when they’d walked in and saved us.
“What are you doing?” Mark glanced at me, and then back at Tristan, worry present on his features.
“We need to tie him up before he wakes.” Grunting, Tristan ripped another piece, nodding for me to come take the shreds of fabric.
“What do you mean?” Mark stared at him with raised eyebrows. “He’s dead.”
“Aye,” Tristan replied grimly, handing me a bundle. “He was dead once before ye arrived, too.”
“What is so important that ye dragged me out of my bed in the middle of the night? I havena even been Grand Master for more than four hours yet!”
William MacDonald, the newly elected leader of The Order grumbled, rubbing a hand over his bald head and pulling his tartan around him tighter as he entered the room. He acted exhausted, and if I was completely honest with myself, there was a twinge of guiltiness for having called on him. Even his beard, which was normally so well kempt, was ruffled and haggard.
However, as soon as the man paused to actually look at us, his eyes widened, his mouth clamping shut. We were a sight to see, after all.
Tristan and I were covered in blood, the hem of my dress ripped and my hair tumbled around my shoulders in an amazing display of messiness. Tristan’s shirt bore a few holes as well, his right eye somewhat blackened and swollen from his wrestling match. Behind us, Mark stood, his face grim, hands holding a bound and blinded Thomas Randall steady.
“We do apologize, Master MacDonald,” Bowing his head, Tristan spoke lightly, as if we were simply there for tea, instead of to tell him of our midnight intruder and his newfound ability.
William swallowed, blinking at the statement, and then seemed to find himself. “Pfft. None of that ‘Master’ garbage.” He waved his hand in dismissal, taking his seat and leaning back in the chair. “MacDonald or Cameron will suit me just fine. I’ve gone by those two names most of my life. No need to add a new one now, especially at my age. I’ll be dead afore anyone can remember what it is.”
Somehow, I managed to keep my snort of amusement quiet, even though Tristan’s lips had twitched upward as well. The joke seemed to break the tension in the air, though, and everyone shifted, ready to have our business done and over with.
“Captain.” Hesitating, I realized I had called him by the last title I’d known him by, when he’d pressed me into service on his ship, the Isobel, albeit rather unwillingly. We both knew I’d been an asset to the crew, though, and he and I had an understanding when it came to including me. That understanding—and the fact that he knew who I truly was—was probably the only thing that had gotten me this far into the meeting.
Pushing all thoughts of the past and my place in it aside, I started again. “Our home was invaded by a Black Knight this evening.”
Behind me, Randall emitted a coughed laugh and then groaned as Mark slapped him upside the head. He had been tied and a cloth sack was placed over his head.
MacDonald’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, frowning. “And this would be yer traitor here, would it?”
“Aye,” Tristan responded. “Normally, I’d agree that this sort of thing could wait until morning, however . . .”
Turning, he pulled the bag off Randall, revealing his filthy, grinning face.
“A dhiobhail!” MacDonald rose to his feet in an instant, practically growling at the Black Knight. “Thomas Randall.” The words seeped through gritted teeth.
The prisoner chortled, some of the madness in his eyes retreating. “It is nice to be recognized by so many. I must have struck quite a chord, these last few years.” Randall sounded almost haughty as he spoke, a keen sense of pleasure in his voice. “Though, I’m afraid, I haven’t met you yet, Grand Master. Congratulations on your recent election. It is quite the honor.” He bowed at the waist, despite the ties that held his hands behind his back.
MacDonald took a moment to reply. It seemed that a thousand thoughts were flying through his mind as he stood there, nose twitching, distrust plain on his features. Finally, he sat, stroking his beard.
“It surprises me that ye did not kill him already, O’Rourke. Samantha. I would have thought ye’d gut him like the pig he is before he even had chance to draw breath.”
“Oh, we did,” I assured him, crossing my arms as I frowned.
“Twice,” Tristan added. His tone mirrored my own worry and annoyance.
Confused, the Grand Master gave us both a stare of utter misunderstanding. “What do ye mean?”
Glancing my way, Tristan shrugged. I caught the slightest hint of a smile before he grabbed Randall and broke his neck in one fluid motion. The crunch of bones made me flinch and I frowned, unnerved by the thought that, in a matter of moments, the bastard would be alive once more.
MacDonald, on the other hand, swore in his native tongue, rising from his seat in shock. “What are ye doin’?” he demanded. “He could have led us to the others! We could have extracted the information we needed from him!”
“I don’t think that’s very likely,” Mark mumbled, speaking for the first time. “Thomas Randall doesn’t really strike me as the type to squeal when pressed.”
Tristan made a noise of agreement, dropping the body and nudging it away with his shoe.
MacDonald glared, still not understanding. Turning to Mark, he huffed, clearly annoyed with how indifferent we were acting. “Every man has his breaking point, Bell. Pain causes people to do . . . things they normally wouldna. It’s not a path I would like to go down, but, in Randall’s case, it would have been necessary.”
“Torture, you mean?” I shook my head. “That’s less than Randall deserves, don’t you think?” As I stared at him, practically daring him to say otherwise, I let the smallest of smiles grace my face.
The Grand Master frowned, returning my appraising gaze. He paused, apparently thinking over his answer, and then sighed. “Yer personal grudges aside, aye. Perhaps it is more generous than he deserves.”
Tristan laughed, one loud bark of sound echoing through the small receiving area. “Death is all this scum deserves. Anyone who says differently is most likely working with him.”
MacDonald rounded on him faster than I could blink. “Ye watch yer mouth, lad. The lyin’ traitor deserves to die for his crimes, aye, but I willna be wasting a valuable source of information, just to satisfy yer more bloodthirsty desires.” He stepped so close their noses were almost touching, their glares practically burning holes through each other. “I’ve not met a man who would rather be tortured than executed, either. So, why dinna ye leave the leading to me, since ye just voted me into the position?”
Tristan held his ground for a moment longer, his jaw working furiously, and then broke. Smiling grimly, he stepped away, tilting his head in agreement. No sooner had William moved from in front of him, though, did he frown again, anger wiping all the pleasantness from his face.
“Why don’t ye ask the rat what he thinks of being tortured?” Tristan grabbed Randall’s body by the collar of his shirt and hoisted the head and torso up for everyone to see.
Bewildered, MacDonald froze, watching the body with extreme hesitation. Finally, he had seemed to catch on to the fact that we were trying to tell him something.
A beat passed. Then, the villain sucked in a huge breath, coughing. He popped his neck, as if he had never been harmed in the first place. Mad eyes found the Grand Master, a giggle bubbling from inside him as he watched the panicked man retreat.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” MacDonald crossed himself, staring at the fo
ur of us with wide eyes. “What sort of devil’s work is this?”
Flipping his hair out of his eyes, Randall laughed. “No devils here, Cameron. Just some of the power that you Dogs have been too scared to embrace.” He jerked away from Tristan, his form left kneeling on the floor between them. When he made to stand, Mark shoved him from behind, keeping him on his knees.
Laughing, Randall shrugged, settling onto the heels of his feet, apparently content with simply observing the meeting going on around him. The smug look of haughtiness he bore practically made my blood boil, my patience quickly running out.
It was time for Randall’s reign to end. All William MacDonald had to do was give the order, or summon someone who knew something about magic—anything, really—and we would be rid of this nightmare for good. My life could return to normal, to freedom, to living without fear. Just a few words, that’s all it would take.
For a couple moments, no one spoke, all of us waiting to hear what the Grand Master would decree in that moment. An electric air charged the space, making the hairs on my neck stand on end.
“No man should have power over death.” MacDonald responded slowly, brow furrowed and hands clasped together. He released a long breath, studying the scene in front of him. It seemed that was all he wanted to say, though.
“What will ye do with him, then?” Tristan finally asked, an impatient note in his words that wasn’t normally there. “How will ye execute a man who cannot die?”
MacDonald continued to stare at the captive for a moment longer, his face grave, and then sighed, meeting my husband’s stare. “I will not,” he answered simply.
Randall chuckled again, a deep sound in the back of his throat, his crazy eyes locked onto the Grand Master in understanding and acceptance.
I, however, was neither understanding or accepting.
“What?” My voice cracked as I screamed the question. Growls and exclamations of disbelief and betrayal were coming from Mark and Tristan, as well. “What do you mean, you won’t?”
Grand Master MacDonald held his hands up, motioning from silence.
Tristan, refusing to be silent, started snarling menacingly, a stream of Irish-Gaelic words flooding from his mouth.
In response, the Scotsman raised his voice, lifting his eyebrows in disapproval. “I mean, Madame O’Rourke, I will not sentence this man to death, no matter how much he may deserve it.” Rounding on an angry Tristan, he unexpectedly shouted, spit flying from his mouth. “Will ye hold yer damn tongue, man! Ye can liken me to the back end of a goat all ye wish, but it’s not going to change my mind!”
Tristan, his eyes practically shooting fire, finally fell silent, glowering
Captain MacDonald sighed. Folding his arms, he looked at me pointedly. “Randall is too great a source of information. We have tried stamping out the Black Knights by force and it has proven time and time again to not work.” His gaze returned to our prisoner. “It is time we try something else. Something that has just come to me as ye all stand before me.”
Fuming, Tristan stepped forward, his hands clenched into fists so tight that his knuckles were white. “Ye can’t be serious?”
MacDonald returned the glare. “I am, Mister O’Rourke.”
At that, Randall snickered more, an expression of triumph on his face. I knew he was enjoying seeing us at odds, his vile tastes always leaning toward discord.
My husband twitched beside me, and it was as if something inside him broke. Tristan’s voice cracked as he shouted at his new leader. “The bloody bastard has killed dozens! Destroyed whole towns! He murdered one of my good friends, kidnapped my wife, stole the treasures we are meant to keep sacred—I’ve witnessed him eating another human being! And ye mean to let him go on living? Why, in God’s name—”
“I am well aware of Thomas Randall’s record.” MacDonald’s voice was calm as it rose, the two of them creating the same amount of noise as a small thunderstorm. He waited for silence before continuing, his stare boring into Tristan. Even with his anger rolling off him, the Grand Master somehow remained collected as he continued, his voice echoing in the room. “And yer war against him. I ken the horrors he has subjected on countless individuals. If there were no other positions to consider, I would kill him myself, here and now. Hell, I’d give ye my hammer, Sheila, and let ye bash his brains in with her until there was nothing left to revive itself.” The hint of a grin played across his face, as if he were imagining that very scene for a second.
Taking a deep breath, his voice softened as he continued, his tone sure and unmoving. As he spoke, I had no doubt that there would be nothing we could do to change his mind. “His battle is against more than just ye, though, and I canna rightly choose my own whims and desires over those of The Order, no matter how much I would like to. He kens things I need to ken, to better protect and serve the men under my command. It is not a decision I make lightly, trust me. It is for all those reasons, I’m saddened to have to say, that while he is here, he will be under my protection and at my disposal.”
“Yer protection?” Tristan looked as if his head were going to blow to pieces right that very second. Anyone could see, just from watching him, that the Captain’s reasons were not good enough for him.
I didn’t know if they were good enough for me, either.
The Order had been a part of my life from the second I had stepped into the past. They had fed and sheltered me, listened to me, trusted me. They had been my source of protection and comfort. The thought of their strength and might was often the only thing that had given me hope in my darkest moments. None of that seemed to matter now, though, as I watched their new leader make what was surely going to be one of the biggest mistakes of his command.
“He will ruin you,” I said simply. “If you let him live, you will regret it every day of your life. I can promise you that.”
Our once great leader didn’t answer, his lips pressing into a thin line as he folded his arms and simply stared at us.
“Captain MacDonald, surely you don’t mean to say that this man’s crimes are not worthy of punishment by death, eventually.” Mark, somehow sliding into the conversation with a coolness that seemed to dampen the incredible amount of anger that was surrounding us all, stepped forward, blocking Randall from view.
A flash of relief crossed MacDonald’s face and he nodded. “Ye are correct, Bell. Thomas Randall will die, for certain. But not until I have extracted what I want from him.”
Hesitating for a moment, Mark thought over the words and then closed his eyes, breathing out a long sigh. “Then I think that is fair.”
My heart stopped at the words, my mouth popping open in disbelief. Staring toward him with pleading eyes, I felt the tiniest stab of betrayal. The feeling was strengthened when Mark wouldn’t meet my gaze, his mouth clamped shut as he gazed forward in silence.
Tristan was not so quiet on the matter. “I don’t believe this. How can ye be so calm?” he demanded, facing Mark. “Ye, who saw firsthand the things he did to Samantha! Who worked on his crew, who understands what he is at his very core?”
Taking another deep breath, Mark closed his eyes for a moment and then answered. “Captain MacDonald has a point,” he asserted, the white of his knuckles the only thing giving away how upset he was really feeling. “And I agree with him. If we can capture more Black Knights by keeping Randall alive longer, that is a trade I’m willing to make.”
“Ye know as well as I that Randall will tell ye nothing,” Tristan hissed. “And if ye are truly willing to trade his life for the safety and comfort of Samantha’s, ye’re no more good than a common traitor, Mark Bell.”
The words made Mark flinch and he shut his eyes, his hand instantly going to the brand of the Black Knights on his arm—the brand he had willingly placed on himself to protect me.
Grunting, Tristan didn’t seem phased by the action, or the pain his words had caused our friend. Ire filled his eyes even more as he faced his newly elected commander. “Ye will learn nothing,” h
e growled. “All ye will have done is let him live another day and possibly escape!”
Glowering, MacDonald motioned to Mark. “Leave us. Have the guard come fetch this filth.”
Hesitating only a second, Mark nodded and left the room, his footsteps quick and head bowed as he practically fled the scene, his fingers still gripping his arm.
“Harsh words, O’Rourke,” Randall drawled, clearly gleeful to have witnessed the whole exchange. “You know, when Mark was a member of my crew, he was such a great Black Knight. That is, until I realized he was legitimately in love with your wife. He still is, too, from what I can tell.” He snorted. “How does that work? Do the two of you share her? If so, why all the fuss about letting me have a piece of her, too?”
Tristan snapped, moving so fast he was practically a blur. Before I even knew what was happening, he launched himself, plowing Randall into the ground. Straddling him, Tristan pummeled his fists against the villain’s face, blood spraying across his knuckles.
MacDonald, dashing forward, grabbed Tristan by the shoulders, yanking him away and holding him back, somehow avoiding being beaten by the mad Irishman, too.
A guard appeared, marching in and hauling Randall to his feet, ignoring the madman’s laughter as he took him away. As soon as the door shut behind them, MacDonald shoved Tristan away, growling at him.
“Control yerself, O’Rourke! Ye’re acting like a damn, bloodthirsty pirate.”
“I am a pirate!” Tristan roared, spit flying from his lips as he glared at his leader. “I’ve always been a pirate! And aye, I’m calling for blood! Ye would be doing the same, if we were at sea! Ye haven’t the slightest idea what ye’ve done, all in the name of your damnable honor!” Tristan’s gory hands were still curled into fists. For a moment, I thought he was going to attack the Grand Master next, the rage on his features turning him a shade of red I’d never seen before.
Rage flickered across MacDonald’s face, his eyes narrowing. For an instant, I thought he might actually fight my husband, like they were two dogs trying to gain dominance. Then, taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and seemed to banish the overbearing fury that had claimed him. Ignoring all the things Tristan had flung at him, he spoke, his voice low and mostly calm. “Are ye suggesting that I canna guard one man suitably enough to keep him in one place?” The Grand Master raised an eyebrow, his breath coming in short, angry bursts. “Do ye truly have such little faith in me, Tristan?”
Stolen Away : A Time Travel Romance (The Swept Away Saga Book 4) Page 9